


Harvest Traditions of Eos

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Festivals, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, Snippets, halloween fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 10:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16491239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Short snippets to admire the scenery across three locations and their Halloween traditions. Little treats of holiday fluff.Part 1: Ignis/NoctisPart 2: Nyx/NoctisPart 3: Ravus/Noctis





	1. Harvest King

**Author's Note:**

> A short challenge with Jazzraft to celebrate the spooky season while it's still upon us!

The Citadel was lit by colour every year for the harvest festivals and their traditions. The solemn, Lucian grey and black of polished stone— normally highlighted with the gilded golds and shining silvers of Lucian motifs— reflected the neon lights of greens and orange; mockeries of natural colours to glow and pulse through the dark Citadel halls. The Lucian royal crests— the ancient ones, before Bahamut and his armouries— were normally hidden in the stonework. Delicate floral crests and traces of skulls were already a fixture around the towering, hallowed Citadel. 

The harvest festivals just amplified it all. 

The shock of neon colours was mirrored across the city— the grinning ghouls and skulls of popular motifs and characters scribbled and sketched out across every advertisement and sign and banner. Glowing orange and red cut across the sombre halls, while children in costume dutifully followed their guides into the royal party rooms. Parents waited along the galleries to catch glimpses and pictures and coo together over their own little ghouls and goblins timidly trailing after the guides through the imposing cavern of the grand halls. 

Ignis led the pack, with Prompto catching the stragglers trailing behind. The boisterous children— princes and princesses, cartoon beasts and popular characters, warriors and uniforms— followed closely behind Ignis, trailing after in the wake of the cape of his own costume. 

There were arrows shining on the floors, little guides in bright pinks and purples to direct those who wandered. There were streamers of cold and silver mixed into the unnatural flares decorating the familiar great hall, the throne hidden behind a curtain done up to look like cracking stone. The gallery was lined with streamers and lights, carved pumpkins set out to light the darkest shadows and illuminate the tables full of treats and snacks and children’s activities. Crisp white pages were gathered on one table with mountains of crayons and markers, treats on another with mall toys and bundles of surprises. 

And in the centre of it all, as he has been for every children’s event in the Citadel since he was young, was Noctis. This year dressed as the Harvest King; a wreath of fallen leaves in place of a crown and his suit a mirror of the familiar Lucian royal uniform. With pinstripes and capelet, Noctis would have been a perfect imitation of his father in his youth, if not for the painted mask of a skeleton on his face. 

The children gathered in Ignis’ shadow as he stopped steps from where Noctis sat on the dais, legs crossed and a mountain of bagged treats around him. There was a moment of dull whispers and chatter from the parents in the gallery, the steady snap and flashes of cameras breaking the quiet awe of the gathered children. 

Ignis offered Noctis a fanged grin, and gave the child closest to him a gentle push towards Noctis, only to have the floodgates open and the boldest children rush forward to greet their prince. The party started with a rush of activity. Noctis had his own gaggle of children trailing in his shadow, Gladio lifted others— his wolfish costume resistant to the tugging of little hands— up to the decorations to examine. 

In little groups of ten at a time, Noctis slipped the children out through the side doors and up the quiet elevators to the more mysterious upper levels. There were stories of magic portals and doorways, and Noctis crouched down with the wide-eyed children to calm them, to share their excitement with stories of his own, with treats produced from pockets and seemingly his armiger. The groups were brought up to the royal study, to the hidden rooms lit up in the ghastly greens and ghoulish glaring neon colours. The groups were brought up to meet the King, to sit in his study while he happily told them stories from a comfortable seat. He told them about adventures beyond the Wall, of grinning daemons and abandoned farms. 

And stories, more often than not, of Noctis’ own harvest festivals. Tales of his costumes and treats, while Noctis sat and helped the children carrying their bags of royal treats and letters back to their parents. 

Later, as the children were bundled off and the real ball and party began, Ignis would catch Noctis in the hallway with a smile. He caught Noctis before the grand entrance, as the music drifted through the halls and the King addressed his own guests in for the proper ball. 

Ignis would offer up his fake-fanged grin, hands careful not to ruin the placement of cape and costume. “You did splendidly, Noct.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” there would be a quick kiss and check of the resilient makeup; “marvellous.”

Noctis offered up a grin, arms linked with Ignis’ as they turned to the grand doors of the ballroom. “One more to go, Specs.”

“Indeed, and I’m sure we can manage one dance before we can offer our excuses.”

“Just one,” Noctis agreed, spotting Gladio waving them through, Prompto on his own arm; “and then you’re mine for the night.”

“As if I could deny the Harvest King.”


	2. Collection of Trinkets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyx takes Noctis home for a visit. Noctis learns the old tradition of rustic magic in Galahd.

From the time of the first fallen leaf to the first snowfalls, Galahd was awash in festivities. The colours of autumn spread across the southern island like wildfire. In his youth, Nyx remembered the vibrant reds and oranges lining the streets and blanketing the mountains. He remembered the canyon, with its russet stone and sudden, steep drops like the ocean shelf just offshore, flooded with paper fire created by orange, red and yellow fallen leaves. The chill winds turned down from the perilous mountain slopes brought stories of ghosts and daemons, carried by hunters and adventurers alike. 

The wreath, however, was a tradition. 

“No one does it better than our Nyx,” his mother stated as she used the Crown Prince of Lucis to ferry her more delicate plants inside before the frost his. “Learnt all that from his pa.”

“Learnt what?” Noctis asked, trying to peek over the collection of potted herbs he had been helping with. His hands were dirty from his recruitment to the garden, his arms full of the salvaged summer plants Hestia Ulric hadn’t quite managed to get inside on her own. 

The leafy plants would be brought back to life over the next few days of warmth. Hestia would tend to her little garden— salvaged from the ravages of the early autumn and sudden colds— with all the care and love she had shown the plants during their splendour in spring and summer. The potted greens and saved starters for the next year were already lined up along ever flat surface that could manage the right amount of light. A green haven in the midst of the autumn colours outside. 

It was all part of the harvest. The dormant plants that had already withered were gathered for compost, to keep the ones to spring fresh from the ground next year warm through the winter cold. The fruits and vegetables had been collected and set out in baskets to be jammed and jellied and preserved for the winter gifts to neighbours and friends. 

“She means my ‘clever hands,’ little star,” Nys smiled as his hands worked on the bundle of sticks he had gathered during a morning tour through the little town. A ribbon was weaved through the collection, and Nyx’s patience helped to bend the bundle to his artistic will. “Ma never had the patience for the wreaths.”

“Takes a fisherman,” Hestia smiled as she collected her herbs— the bite of basil joining the rosemary and thyme enveloping the kitchen. “Or a bartender, I suppose.”

“Or captain of the Kingsglaive,” freed from his leafy burden, Noctis settled next to Nyx on the loveseat to watch him work. To watch the leaves, skewered by the woven sticks were joined by ornaments and beads and ribbons. He watched as Nyx carefully held the mess of collected autumn trinkets together and work it until it started to take a real shape. 

The wreaths had been on every door and stoop in the town— each unique and joined by dollies or just long trails of ribbons. Some carried unique colours— like Nyx’s purple ribbon laced through to tie the bundle together— and others were covered in bells and nets and bones. Each shop placed their own in the window, beneath the sign, a small bell and coin hidden in the mass of twigs and leaves. The coffee shop they had stopped at had a cracked mug securely hanging by a green and gold ribbon, where passing patrons dropped a coin as they walked out of the shop with their own warm drink or light meal. 

Noctis had watched children chase each other and the blowing, crisp leaves along the sidewalk and through the fields. He had seen couples digging through the ruins of homes destroyed by war with the same childish joviality; leaving the broken, cracked shells of homes with baskets of stones and twigs and wild plants. 

He had smiled as Nyx gathered up sticks and twigs as they walked, seemingly without thought. As he paused for a fishbone from a basket by a stall in the seaside market, and scoured his mother’s house for odds and ends that were now being woven into the colourful wreath. 

Noctis had watched, as the evergreen brush and trees were left alone; as the husks of harvested produce were set out in large offerings to be rummaged through by children and adults alike. As anything metal, broken, twisted by Niflheim was tossed aside in favour of the remnants of summer that could be gathered from underfoot. 

“It’s just a tradition,” Nyx said as he tied off the last of the bundle; the wreath a jagged crown in his hands. An uneven circle of mismatched trinkets and cast offs collected and tied together. “Gotta represent the family.”

“Before the neighbours start talking.”

Hestia took the finished wreath from her son, and inspected the little beads handing from it. Two were woven into the mass of twigs and leaves and ribbons. Three dangling down at an even length below. She inspected each bead, and added her own touch— a tiny dash of ash from the hearth to blacken one of the beads. “There, proper Lucis black for you.”

“What?”

“It’s a family thing,” Nyx said as his mother set the wreath out on the door, straightening the beads before they could tangle— though two were impossible to keep apart, tied with two ends of the same ribbon as they were. “Don’t question it.”

“Guess now.”

“Now that’s done,” Hestia smiled, summoning them both to their feet; “both of you come help in the kitchen.”


	3. Forest Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravus may have let the night get the best of him.

The forests of Tenebrae were rarely anything but a lush, welcoming green. The leafy canopy rarely felt the same effects of the seasons as elsewhere, even within the kingdom itself. Fenestala Manor, with its generations of Oracle magic ingrained into every sliver of wood and polished stone, remained shrouded in greenery regardless of the battering, demanding Niflheim winter winds. The forests beyond the Manor, stretching out across the elegant kingdom did suffer the same transformation and decay as its neighbours, but Ravus had always thought that the rebirth of the forest at least began with an imitation glorious blaze. 

He toured the forests and farms and the outskirts of the kingdom each year with his beloved sister. He stood guard at her side as she tended to their people, as she tended to their land and children and allies. 

By the time the tour had ended, the Night of the Fey was upon the Manor, shrouded as it was in it’s green finery. A testament to everlasting magic while the rest of the forest decayed around them. But as he walked the halls, he listened to the creak of ancient branches, and watched the shadows cast by the waxing moon dance across the floor of darkened hallways. He thought of the skeletal trees of the outlying lands, bent in the winds and dormant, while the farmers and superstitious burnt offerings in their fields to beg for a short winter. 

His mother used to say that the ghosts of the trees wandered the lands in the winter. That the bodies lay dormant and the roots warmed beneath decaying leaves left to rot, but the soul of the trees searched out the Oracle. Like all living things. 

He could see the shadow of the trees around the decorated halls. The ghoulish images practically Lucian in their archaic ideals of death and resurrection; the shadows of branches cast against the web of coloured streamers— gold and greys and autumn orange— wrapped around the pristine white of his home. He watched, mask for the night’s festivities on hand, as the shadows darkened as they gathered in the corners, despite the light. The music drifted down from the ballroom where he was meant to be; curled its way between pillars and windows, like a faded siren’s call to remind him of his obligations. 

But he paused in surprise as he spotted the figure. 

The lone shadow at the balcony, leaning against the gilded railings and gazing out across the brilliant city half-hidden in the trees below. Or perhaps towards the distant stars glittering like the wayward fireflies that managed their way into the Manor, drawn by the fairy lights and candles. 

It took a moment— a slowing of his step— to identify the figure. The slouch of his shoulders, the rest of weight against the balcony barrier. The quirk to his lips. The sylleblossom crown woven into his hair. 

The half mask— fey and feline features complementary to the Crown Prince’s own softness— did little to hide an identity when so much else gave the man away. 

Ravus pushed the childish first thought that the shadow was a spectre of the night from his mind, and chastised himself for letting his sister’s whimsy influence him. 

“Do you require assistance returning to the party, Prince Noctis?”

His tone was left even, concise. The minimum needed to be considered polite. 

“No, I’m good.”

The manners of the Lucians will be the death of him, Ravus was certain of that fact. “Allow me to accompany you back, regardless.”

In the better lit ballrooms, the decorations and festival lights were out in full force. The golden streamers and strands fairy lights webbed together across the vaulted ceiling of the grand room. The walls were lined with tables of treats and snacks of substance, and gathered seating with garish tablecloths were laid out for the guests. When Ravus first stepped away, he had seen his mother speaking with Noctis’ father, glasses in their hands as they chatted like old friends rather than professional equals. He had seen Noctis— small, weak Noctis from his memory— sheltered with his sister at a table, a mound of treats between them as the Lucian attendants indulged and shielded their Prince. 

He was surprised to see Noctis out beyond the welcoming light of Tenebrae hospitality, and skulking in the shadows. He must be lost. 

“Go ahead, Ravus. I’ll be there in a bit.” The Lucian smiled to him, all pallid skin and icy eyes. All the warmth of the cold, Lucian city of steel and chrome. “No need to worry about me.”

“I’m hardly worried,” Ravus started before he could stop himself. And he sighed as he joined the Lucian in his stargazing. “My sister will worry if you vanish.”

“Luna’s definitely not worrying.”

“She always worries.”

“About you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Noctis smiled again, the ridiculous sylleblossom crown Luna must have made for him askew in his hair now that Ravus saw it. He reached out to adjust the stupid, childish thing himself; Noctis clearly wasn’t going to do it. “She sent me to look for you.”

Ravus huffed, his own mask dangling unceremoniously from his arm. He knew that he stood out here, that he was visible in the dark with his uniform of Tenebraean whites and violet. “And you got distracted from that mission.”

“Not my fault your place is pretty.”

The forests stretched across all that could be seen in the dark, the stars an endless field above. Ravus could admit that the Lucian may not be totally blind to reality if he acknowledged the beauty of the kingdom. 

“Then allow me to not let you get distracted again on the way back to the festivities.”

“You can actually relax, Ravus.”

“Perhaps.” There was always a touch of fey mischief in this night— with its sparkling lights and his meddling sister sending out fools on errands. He had been asked to fetch her shawl, after all. It was only a matter of letting the fey have their way within the shadows. He offered an arm to Noctis; “Let’s see if a drink will make you better company, Noctis.”

“It can’t hurt.”

In the morning, the forest mist would drift aimlessly between the trunks and boughs, the promise of the winter’s chill seeping in beneath warm blankets and hearth fires. The magic of the night— Oracle, Lucian, or fey folk— would dissipate with the warmth, and Ravus would worry about the smile the Lucian Prince brought to his lips in the cold light of day. 

The shadowed night was for dancing.


End file.
